


Lesson Learned

by moon_opals



Category: Disney Duck Universe, Disney Ducks (Comics), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck
Genre: Always Unresolved These Two, F/M, Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: Tomorrow they'll hit restart.For now, they'll seek rapture.Scrooge is a dumb dumb in the ways of copulation, and Goldies gives a basic sex-ed lesson.





	Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

> Check the rating? You did. You know what you're getting into? You do. 
> 
> I think you're ready to go.
> 
> Koizumi-Marichan provided all the ideas and concept for this story. Amazing, right? At the bottom is their work too.

Stars leak into an inky, empty sky. The moon bides her time. Scrooge curls a hand over his eyes, sweat soaking his brow, and measures the hour.

“About time for dinner,” he says. “A hot plate of beans and a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.”

It is silent, an unusual occurrence. He swirls in her direction and sees she has abandoned the pick axe where she picked last. Exhaustion darkens her expression, and she cannot muster the energy to scowl or glare. A scold for the pick axe’s location rises to his tongue, but he decides now is not the time. Over the duration of her stay, exhaustion is an improvement.

Little bickering. Productive work schedule. It is more than he can ask for from her. He walks to where she picked and takes the instrument in his hand. He carries his and hers back to the cabin. It’s quiet inside. He leaves the pick axes near the door and watches her on the bed. Her shoulders no longer shake. Her muscle sinews are semi-prominent in her forearms, a testament to the work he has put her through.

Scrooge finds he doesn’t want to fight. Not tonight. He’s too tired. He’s used to the pain and drain, but even his energy has its limits. He walked to the stove, “You want some?”

“I don’t want to be disturbed,” she pulls the sheet over the not-mattress bed. She suspects no doctor will take a look at her spine after this, but there aren’t any alternatives. Her head lands on the pillow soundlessly. She drapes the sheet over her, and soon, light snores fill the walls. Scrooge frowns. He wants to eat out of routine, but there is no painful ache in his stomach. It is empty and content.

He calmly surveys the one room cabin and nods. His pot and can of beans are returned to their cabinet. It’ll save him a trip to the general store. He places empty tin cans in front the cabin door. If she decides to make her move after a month, he’ll concede admiration for her patience. His nightly routine is one he doesn’t relax on. He sets them in line and closes the door. He grabs his blanket and drags it to the woodbin. He’s silent as he opens the door, and he’s even quieter as he enters, closing the door with a soft thud.

Scrooge doesn’t sleep. He carefully pulls the strongbox out of the firewood and presses his back along the wall. Important documents wait for him inside. Letters from home. Deed to his claim. His goose egg nugget preserved in stiff wrapping, but he smiles at the sharp glimmer underneath. And last, a single curl of blonde hair he managed to acquire almost a month ago. He sets the box down and touches the lock. It’s softness startles him every time. He has never touched hair as fine, as soft as hers. A testament to her name.

He frowns, ashamed. “I shouldn’t,” he returns the gold lock and closes the strongbox. He had no right to take the lock after it had fallen. But it made sense at the time. “It isn’t like she needed it,” he thinks as he lies down for sleep. “I admit it is a little creepy.” This is his last thought as he falls under sleep’s spell.

It starts like this.

Scrooge hears a sound. A muffled, tired, strained sound. He rolls on his side, curls tightly under his blanket, and tries to ignore the sound. He dreams of welcoming fields. Mummy and Daddy are out in the fields on a blanket. Matilda and Hortense sit near each other, flower dressing each other’s hair. Scrooge runs to them, waving; it’s here he realizes something rests in his other hand. He pulls another person at his side. She smiles at him, adorned in a pale blue dress; sun colored hair pours over her shoulders in deep waves.

His grip tightens. He smiles.

The sounds repeats. He awakens in darkness, and rolls on his back. He wants to say it’s a caribou, or a circling hawk, readying its prey, but this sound is different from anything he’s ever heard. Low, deep its similar to a painful groan when someone has taken a hard hit to the head. Troubling. Scrooge’s stomach pinches and panic flashes to his senses. In a crouching position, he pushes the door open, preparing a plan of attack.

“Who else could’ve found this place,” he thinks. “It can’t be Soapy Slick. It isn’t his style.”

His list of possible suspects is long. He can’t imagine what fool would think it wise to enter his home uninvited. “I’ll teach what happens when they do,” he rolls his sleeves up, fists raised. He leaves the woodbin silent, and closes the door in the same manner. Night is at its greatest height with the moon making her glorious appearance. Its pale light spreads through the window; a perfect streak upon the bed where his partner sleeps. Or that was what he thought.

He rushes out, anticipating a fight and finding none. Goldie lies on the hard wooden frame he calls a bed.  Her sheet is tossed aside, not quite on the floor but drawn to her feet. Her ankles are crossed. Her night gown is ruffled, and clings to her skin at awkward angles, as if it was drawn up rather than down. Scrooge spots her hand. He tilts his head, confused. His gaze continues on and notices her hand resting on her, _oh_ , breast. His stepd back, unable to whisper, unable to gasp in surprise. Her grip on her breast is firm while the other sits between her legs, stroking in circular motions. Moonlight reveals more than he intends. His heart leaps to his throat.

He thinks he hears rushing water, but he knows the distance from the stream makes it close to impossible. And the splash is softer, smaller in comparison to the roaring rapids beyond his cabin’s door. He swallows. He knows this is something he should not witness, but confusion and rising interest holds him. “I need to leave,” he tells himself without knowing why. “I need to hide.” But once this thought has blossomed, another poisons its roots.

Scrooge feels a stirring. A knot. Or is it a pull? He has no way to confirm this perplexing sensation, but he recognizes it all the same. He glances down at his exposed lower half, and squeaks pitifully.

“What are you doing there,” he says tightly.

Goldie’s groans cease in a single moment. She raises her head and stares ahead, blinking at the obvious shadow standing several feet across the room. “Scrooge?” She glances at her state of undress and flares. “I told you not to disturb me,” she rolls her nightgown down and finds the blanket, “can’t you knock? Don’t you know when someone needs a little privacy?” Her attempts to cover herself are successful, but the damage is done. He’s seen her. All of her, or more than they ever anticipated. Goldie’s cheeks are a deeper red than she’s ever blushed. But she can’t let him know that.

She clasps the blanket under her beak, resting near her neck. “So,” she shouts at him. “What is it!?”

“I…,” Scrooge blinks confusedly. He shakes his head, frown free, and crosses his arms. “What were you doing?”

Goldie scoffs with an eye roll. “Oh please,” she says, “what do you think I was doing, Scrooge?”

Scrooge falters for a moment. He doesn’t know, and that is the problem. He looks away, finding it unreasonably taxing to meet her eyes. Their gaps in experience are a stake to his heart. Goldie’s glare weakens, and she peers at him, studying his abashed gaze and faintly pink cheeks. She sucks in a sharp breath, disbelief showering over her. But is her theory such an impossible thing?

She shrugs, casting an aside stare. “You’re not kidding,” she answers after several moments. “You really don’t know.”

“As I should!”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about our bodies,” Goldie replies, smoothly. It sounds like this is a sentence she’s repeated many times. Scrooge doesn’t think about it. She throws her legs over the side - her shapely, well defined legs, and studies him grimly.

Embarrassment colors his neck and cheeks. He hardens his scowl while his shoulders stiffens. The gap broadens. Her sensibilities shame him, and the more he stands, the more he wants to retreat to the woodbin and its safety. But she shakes her head, smiling lightly as her attention lowers.

“You should be embarrassed about that,” she points below his coat. “I’m sure your momma taught you not to show off in front of a lady.”

Scrooge pulls back, troubled, and peers down. All the color on his white feathers drain in a second. He crosses his legs and pulls his coat down in a swift move, and sputters incoherently. “I don’t know how that happened,” he squeaks.

Goldie coughs, loudly. An admirable attempt to conceal her humor; the rest she gulps forcefully. Anger and irritation flies off into the night, leaving her with options she decides to pick in the moment. Hand on her thigh, hair tousled down her back, she sees Scrooge make a discreet retreat to his woodbin, and shakes her head, chuckling.

“I can help you with that,” she says, clearly.

Scrooge grips the woodbin door with one hand. The other still does a poor job at holding the coat above his erection. She sees the pale pink tip dangling in the middle. It winks at her. She returns to him, seriousness pearled in her forest green waves.

“Are you mad woman!?”

“No,” she answers. “Normally, I’d let you go inside and do it yourself, but I’m feeling generous tonight.” She disregards her own desires for the time being, and stands, crossing her arms over her breasts. Her hip juts out to the side, and she strides to him, similar to a cougar stalking its helpless prey. “I can help you -,”

“Why would I want that?”

He’s made an error. Goldie smirks.

“If it means anything, I am very professional in the ways of...bodily attention,” she grins. “I’ll teach you what you can do in regards to your,” she clears her throat, “problem. And we don’t have to mention this ever again. It’ll be just between the two of us.

“And why should I trust you,” he sneers.

Goldie shrugs. “You can do what you like, but that,” she points to him, “isn’t going away anytime soon, and it wouldn’t hurt to apply some stress relief.”

Scrooge pauses, contemplating. As much as it horrified him, for reasons soon made apparent, his interests hounded him to move forward. He swallows and nods, extending his hand. Goldie is taken aback, surprise visible, and then softens, chuckling. She takes her clean hand and shakes his hand.

“No funny business,” he grumbles.

“Of course,” she smiles. “Now, take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“Take off your clothes,” she repeats, patiently. “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right, so clothes off.” Her back meets the head board, and she pats her lap. “And I recommend you to hurry it up. I know how you are about early risers.”

Scrooge growls, but does as she says. He unbuttons his coat and drops it on the table. Another pause, heartbeat clamoring against his rib cage, but he can do this. He inhales sharply, walking to where she waits. Goldie spreads her legs, and he assumes correctly he’s supposed to lie in her arms. He does. His back meets her breasts, and he gulps, quietly, at the distinct feel of the round mounds on her chest. Additional plumage tickles his spine. He keeps his beak closed.

Goldie wraps her arms near his neck. “You’re tense,” she whispers. “Are you okay? Do you want this?”

Scrooge tilts his head. “Yes,” he answers. “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

“You’re kind of wishy-wash in the temperament department,” she retorts, plainly.

“I opt to disagree with that.” But lying on her front is more comfortable than he anticipates, “We can discuss it later.”

“Trust me, we won’t be doing a lot of talking.” And yet, the admission pleases her more than he knows. She leaves their conversation on that note. “Okay,” she fixes the pillow behind her. “I want you to relax.”

“I am relaxing.”

“I mean for real.” She grips his shoulders and massages them, running her thumb along his clavicle in a gentle stroke, “You won’t feel anything if you’re a bundle of nerves.”

“I think you’ll have to excuse it.”

“Hm.” Her fingertips dance along the defining bone, and she hums, absently. “Very pleasant, but relaxation is key. Don’t you want to learn?” There’s a teasing note in her line. Scrooge is annoyed, but does as she says. He releases the tension in his body, falling back onto her completely. Her satisfied smirk licks his neck. She roams freely, gracing her touch along his neck, all the way down to his clavicle.

He shudders, not out of tension. This is different. Heat and cold combine, just as his fingers dig into the wood. His breath is shaky. Her amusement chuckle, and meets his absent anger. Her embrace intoxicates him; her touch grounds him as his mind wanders higher than he's ever known. His knees roll up, feet twitching, and in between half-lidded eyes he sees his erection resume its natural state.

“Good, boy,” she says. “I like this. Do you?”

“I…,” he hums.

Goldie laughs. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She occupies lower. She touches his breasts, which are far more sensitive than he knew. It tickles shivers throughout his body. His fingers and toes are numb. Anticipation softens his breath. She slides lower and lower, right above the sensitive patch of feathers where his dick waits impatiently. The enlarged tip bulges. She shifts slightly, moving a little forward for a better position. Her grip curves ever so to grasp the hilt, and Scrooge half-whistles.

“Bless me bagpipes,” he whispers.

“I think we’ll be doing more than that tonight,” she grins. “Are you ready?”

Scrooge nods.

She says nothing else. Scrooge half-turns for a better angle. Goldie slowly slides her hand down, easy, carefully, and holds her breath as Scrooge bucks forward. Her other hand pinches his side as a reminder. Night is longer than they think, but time will not be wasted. “Good,” she says, her first stroke completed. “We’ll keep going until you’re finished, but I want you to watch,” she gasps. “I’m not always going to be here.”

“I know,” he groans.

“So, you have to learn, Scroogey.”

She laughs and moans into his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but as close as they’ll allow for now.

Her strokes move faster, are quicker. He convulses in her arms, and buries his face into her neck, resting on her shoulder. He meets her strokes with frenzied thrusts, gripping her nightgown.

“Goldie,” he whines.

“I know, Scrooge,” she breathes. “Let it out. I want you to.”

It’s an itch. It’s all he can think, an itch. He feels the build up at the back of his head, clouding in a tight ball at the edge of his dick. It’s clogged. It wants out, but doesn’t know how. She does, and he does as he’s told. He releases himself, pulling his arm around her. His leg kicks as white squirts, hitting the blanket. In her arm, he spazzes, gasps, and sputters weakly.

She holds him, smiling. “You’re alright,” she brushes his hair. “You’re alright.”

They wait for him to return. He needs to return; lost in ecstasy, the high carries him far above cloud nine. He can’t speak. He can’t think. All there is, is sensation. He lies still in his arms, panting, and she waits calmly for him to regain some senses. She kisses his forehead, murmuring how well he performed.

“But I -,”

“Your stamina will improve the more you work at it.” In moonlight, she glitters.

He doesn’t know how long, but his breathing eases. He’s calmer. He’s steady. Goldie looks at him and pulls away, gently.

“Wait, where are you -,”

“You had your fun, and I want mine,” she hikes her nightgown to her thighs. “And you’re going to help,” she takes his hand, resting it on top of her pussy. She laughs at his scarlet embarrassment rising on his cheeks.

“I’ve never -,”

“Aren’t you smarter than the smarties,” she gasps.

His palm is soaked. She leaks arousal, and it’s hard to grasp this arousal is for him.

“Where do I start?”

Goldie swallows. “You’re going to start here,” she fixes his hand, using just his index finger to direct to her clit. “This is all a girl needs to have good time, y’hear? We rarely get off with a good fuck, but you have to be careful. Not too much. Not too little. Y’understand?”

Scrooge nods. “What about your,” he clicks his tongue, “your insides.”

“About a finger or two, two gives a fuller feeling, but not enough.” She sighs, “Remember, slow and gentle, if I want more, I’ll tell you.”

He obeys. His index finger brushes along what she refers to as the hood. It’s thick, swollen, not so dissimilar from his earlier erection, now retracted back into his cloaca. Goldie twitches. She grips his chest. He repeats the process, slowly, unsure, but it does what he expects it should. He brushes along her clit and presses a little more that rewards him with an even tighter grips as she buries her face into his feathers.

“I think I’m going to,” he says softly.

“It’s okay, please,” she groans.

While his index finger fondles her clit, his middle fingers enter her. The tightness surprises him. He lets out a surprised hiss at the same time she throws her head back, unwittingly bucking her hips forward. Scrooge concentrates; his desires are secondary to hers. She falls on the pillow and he lowers for a better view.

Pink. Bright pink. A pretty, tight pink. This is what he sees. He also sees muscles throb involuntarily, and wetness sleeking over his fingers. The sheen is unlike any he has ever seen.

Goldie seizes her breasts, pinching and squeezing tight. “Oh please, just like that,” she hums. “Don’t stop. Don’t!”

He doesn’t tell her he won’t. They know he won’t until she’s finished; until her journey has completed. It’s an experience, Scrooge finds, feeling her warm walls clasp happily around him. Every motion sends fire to his loins, but it means more than that. She’s pleased and happy, and he's responsible for this vitality. His fingers slide in and out in sharp but conscious movements that has her knees buckling around his arms. It’s an awkward position to be in, but he doesn’t dare stop now.

“Oh shit,” Goldie whines. “I’m gonna -,”

“Go, it’s okay,” he rasps. “Come on, lassie. Let go.”

It hits him in the chest; a waterfall compared to his flimsy leak. His chest feathers are soaked, and curl together in sticky knots. The preening to detangle them is the furthest from his mind as he watches her convulse in rapid succession. Her orgasm has him on a high he instinctively slurps, tongue peeling on her swollen clit. When the last convulsion hits, he removes his fingers and laps up her sweetness.

“Delicious,” he licks. “Sweeter than candy.”

Goldie lies, still, on the hard mattress. Nothing is said. The moon glares at them in envy. Scrooge rises off his knees, unsure of how he managed to get to that position. No one asks. He stands above her, staring at her spread legs, sweat stained nightgown, and the deliriously happy expression on her face.

“Thank you,” she says.

“No,” he shakes. “I...thank you? No, yes,  thank you.”

She rolls to the side, and flips the blanket over. “Tomorrow, this never happened,” she says. “Tomorrow, we go back to normal.” She pats the empty space next to her.

Scrooge stands, confused. He understands her words. “Tomorrow, this never happened,” he stares at the empty space. “But tomorrow isn’t here, is it?”

“Not yet,” she grumbles underneath her blanket. “So for now, sleep next to me.”

He looks at the woodbin. He returns to her. The choice is there, and it’s all his. Quietly, he finds his place on the other side of the wooden board. He sits down, then reclines, and has his back touching hers. The moon beams her envy onto them, but Scrooge doesn’t care. Sleep is a short distance away.

“Tomorrow,” he says.

At dawn, they’ll hit restart.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Belated Birthday! These young goofs were a lot of fun to write.


End file.
